


Carry Our Bodies Safe To Shore

by stepantrofimovic



Series: how clear, how lovely bright [3]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Daughter Relationship, Gen, Minor Character Death, Other, or at least prepared so heavily in canon that we know, or that ao3 tags her as bright's wife rather than mrs bright, ugh i'm upset we didn't even get to learn her name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21767980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic
Summary: "Coming to Oxford without a plan was not the best idea, Trewlove thinks as she all but jumps out of the car."Or, what Trewlove did when she heard about Bright's wife.
Relationships: Reginald Bright & Shirley Trewlove, Reginald Bright/Reginald Bright's Wife
Series: how clear, how lovely bright [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/967152
Comments: 7
Kudos: 22





	Carry Our Bodies Safe To Shore

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Of Monsters and Men’s _Little Talks_. It’s a very sad song.
> 
> I’ve been sitting on this story, or something like it, since the latest series aired, but had not written a single word of it. I’m glad I can do that now.

Coming to Oxford without a plan was not the best idea, Trewlove thinks as she all but jumps out of the car. It’s late afternoon, and the hospital is big, and while Morse has given her a building number, she has neither a ward nor any idea about visiting hours, or whether she’ll be allowed inside at all. What she does have is police identification, although from the wrong city, and the anxiety that has been gnawing deep at her gut since she received the phone call.

Her plans did not consider that she might find Bright outside of the main doors, smoking. He raises his eyes to glance at her once, seemingly without recognising her. Then, a moment later, he visibly flinches, his fingers almost crushing the cigarette.

She stops in front of him, still breathless from sprinting out of the car park. She adjusts the hem of her orange jumper just to gain a second of silence. She didn’t grab her coat, did she. Okay.

‘I – a friend called me. How is—?’

Bright looks down at his cigarette. His countenance shows nothing but intense displeasure, a sourness that Trewlove has very rarely seen directed at herself.

‘Mrs Bright passed late this morning. We are almost finished making arrangements.’

Shirley’s breath gets stuck in her throat. _I’m sorry_ , she wants to say. _What can I do_. Nothing sounds remotely acceptable anyway.

‘My condolences,’ she says, immediately feeling the bite of anger and shame.

The nervous, uncontrolled gesture with which Bright seems to physically swipe away her words is familiar, at least. He says nothing, just throws the cigarette – barely half-smoked – to the side with another sharp movement, and turns around to walk back inside.

Shirley should not follow him, but she does.

***

 _We_ are making arrangements, Bright had said, but there is no sign of anyone else. Just a male nurse, and a woman who’s not in scrubs but is holding a pen and a clipboard. Bright signs forms. He answers questions with sparse, clipped words. They seem to have taken the body away already, or at least there is no sign of it anywhere that Shirley can see.

This is probably a good thing, considering.

The nurse looks at Shirley and volunteers a slightly puzzled smile. She shakes her head at him, but he still takes her aside – thankfully a few steps away from Bright.

‘Are you family?’ he asks. Shirley wonders what he’s thinking. It’s either daughter or, somehow, worse.

‘Just a friend.’

‘That’s good,’ he says, reassured. _I wish I was sure of that_ , she thinks.

The whole paperwork ordeal doesn’t last more than fifteen minutes. Throughout, Bright moves purposefully, seemingly directing every ounce of his usual nervous energy towards the task at hand. She’s seen him like this before, at the station. When everything is done, he gathers his coat and, just like at the station, Shirley follows without needing to be summoned or asking questions. The moment he steps outside, however, he stops. He doesn’t even move away from the doors, to the great annoyance of the young doctor who almost walks into him. He just stands there, the only movement his fingers twitching emptily at his side.

‘My car is that way,’ Shirley says.

He looks at her as if he had forgotten she was there. Still, he nods and follows.

***

It’s not their first silent car ride together, but it’s one of very few. There have always been at least some words exchanged between them, but this time neither opens their mouth.

It’s definitely the first ride where Trewlove is wearing her orange jumper, or where her hair is down. She keeps pushing it back behind her ears, and it’s such a silly gesture, she hates herself for it.

***

Bright’s sitting room is no different from the last time she saw it. There should be some sort of change, Shirley thinks, some sort of sense that someone has died there. Although she supposes Mrs Bright didn’t quite – she died at the hospital, after all. But the point is, really – there has always been a sense of loss everywhere in the Brights’ house, of course. She glances at the photograph of Dulcie on the cupboard, and she idly wonders if it’s going to be joined by another one soon. She thinks she should feel guilty at the thought, for some reason.

Bright himself is still completely silent, and Shirley doesn’t know what she should do, so she settles on one thing that she definitely knows how to do, at least: she goes to make tea.

It takes her longer than expected (but then, what did she really expect) to find something that is not a fragile-looking tea set. But there are at least two cups that don’t look like they will break on sight, and there is milk, and she’s not forgotten how Bright takes his tea.

When she walks back into the sitting room, she finds him sitting down on one of the sofas. Given it’s in front of the coffee table, that at least makes her life easier.

As she sets the tea down in front of him, she realises this is probably the kind of table on which she’s expected to use a tray, or something to protect the shiny, polished wood. She picks up her own cup quickly, fingers tightening reflexively around the handle.

The tea seems to rouse Bright from whatever thoughts he’s immersed in. He takes the cup, warming his hands around it. It’s a nervous gesture she recognises well – doubles as a way to stop his hands from shaking visibly.

‘Thank you,’ he says, and it still sounds like something he’s saying on reflex, not quite meant for her in particular. Then he looks up, and his eyes refocus a little. ‘I’m sorry,’ he adds, his voice still sounding thin and hollow. ‘That you had to come all the way out here.’

She shakes her head. ‘It’s really not a problem.’

She thinks he understands what she means, because he sighs, long and deep and shaky, and looks down into his cup. His fingers make a stark contrast with the white porcelain, and not for the first time, she’s struck by just how old his hands look, with their deep wrinkles and gnarled bones and flecked skin. Only, today, the usual thought feels very different.

‘You should not have to drive all the way back to London in the dark.’

She didn’t expect him to speak again, and her first thought is that he’s sending her away, that this – the honestly offensive idea that she may not be a good enough driver to safely drive home after sunset, despite all the times _she_ has driven _him_ around in the most disparate situations – is somehow meant to be her cue to leave. Then she realises that it’s dark already. He means a very different thing.

‘I – yes,’ she nods. Her voice comes out a bit too high, a bit too nervous. ‘Is it all right if I make a phone call?’ she adds.

He nods. The phone is in the hallway – she’s seen it, but he points her towards it anyway.

It’s a very brief call. There isn’t much to say – just, _I’m not coming home tonight, yes I’m staying over here, yes_ , _no, don’t worry_ , _yes I can get some fish for dinner_ – and then, because she can’t, not after today, quickly, as quietly as she can, a hand shielding her mouth together with the receiver, _I love you_.

‘Thank you. For letting me use the phone,’ she says as she walks back into the room. Bright’s eyes are quicker to refocus on her this time, not quite present, but sharper.

He doesn’t ask, and she shouldn’t say more, but she does. ‘That was Ellie – Eleanor. My – roommate.’ It’s too long a pause, her voice is too shaky, all of this is too late anyway. She can feel her throat tighten, her heartbeat start to race loudly in her ears. The closest hotel – not that she can really afford anyway – or maybe she can stay with Morse. Or drive back to London, after all.

‘Does she treat you well?’ Bright asks, and all of a sudden she can breathe again.

‘She – yes. She does. Very.’

He nods sharply, and for a moment they are back at the police station, where he’s bestowing his rare approval on someone’s actions, not a broken, elderly widower, but a police officer in charge of all his men. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Very well.’

Shirley didn’t expect she would be the first to cry today, but here she is. The tears come quickly, but they feel so out of place – this is not her time to cry. She starts to apologise, but a hand on her shoulder stops her.

Bright has stopped closer, close enough that she doesn’t have to move to rest her head on his chest. It’s the sort of gesture that city people would make, she can practically hear her father’s voice in her head saying – so self-contained and yet so melodramatic, the kind that you see on the telly. It’s the sort of gesture that her father would never allow, not without a scoff and a step away.

Bright doesn’t step away. She’s gripping his arm, and he’s sort of half-hugging her, and it’s so very awkward, but neither of them moves for a while. If, when they do, Shirley can see the tear tracks on Bright’s face as well, she doesn’t say anything.

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to quite a few more of my Trewlove headcanons – you can pry this small, angry working-class bisexual out of my cold dead hands.
> 
> ETA: yes, I've seen the new series now, and yes, I have YIKES.


End file.
